My Formula 1 System

Trampos' big strategy for conducting Luca's tests in Italy was set to be executed swiftly and with enough misdirection to throw off whoever—or whatever—had been responsible for the fallout of his initial tests.

The first phase of the plan required Luca, Mr. Ammermann, and two crew members to make an appearance at a well-known FIA sub-quarter in Milan. That is, if it could even be considered a proper sub-quarter.

Italy had an unusually high number of FIA sub-quarters for a single motorsport-driven country. This was unbelievable and ironic, given that the FIA's main headquarters was already located in Italy!

Mr. Fisher had ruled out conducting the tests at the headquarters. Instead, the goal was for Luca and the team to be seen entering the Milan sub-quarter, ensuring their presence was noted.

The track facility had provided them with a comfortable SUV, and they were now making their way through the bustling streets of Milan, weaving through the dense city traffic toward their destination.

Back then, in anticipation of the Spanish Grand Prix, Barcelona had shown excitement, but it was nowhere near the sheer passion Milan was displaying now. Luca could only imagine how electrifying Monza itself would be.

The roads were lined with banners of all sizes, draped over buildings, strung between lampposts, and even wrapped around some city buses. The Italian tricolor—green, white, and red—was everywhere, waving proudly alongside flags bearing the Ferrari logo, names of drivers, and team insignias.

EVERY storefront had rearranged their displays to showcase racing memorabilia—objects like miniature F1 cars, helmets, and signed posters of legendary Italian drivers like Marco Rossi for example.

EVERY electronic billboard flashed between normal advertisements and the 12th round ads.

Pedestrians filled the sidewalks, many of them casually wearing t-shirts, sweaters, and scarves of Squadra Corse, Velocità, or Nevada HanSama, as if they were everyday fashion. Some even had jackets with bold team logos printed across the back, a clear sign of their allegiance. It was as if the entire city had been divided into three factions, yet the energy was nothing but celebratory.

At a zebra crossing where their ride stopped for a moment, a group of fans in matching Velocità hoodies strolled across without urgency, chatting animatedly. One of them pointed towards a towering digital billboard ahead, where an advertisement for the upcoming Mega Prix flashed in dazzling lights, showing a roaring Red Bull storming through Monza, Davide DiMarco behind it, and the words "La Battaglia Finale" emblazoned across the screen.

Luca whispered something he himself didn't even understand as he saw it all. This wasn't just a country hosting the final race of the season, this country was living and breathing it.

The car slowed at a traffic light again, giving Luca a chance to glance at everything. He realized this was the metropolis of the city, the capital, making him wonder how other parts of the country would even be celebrating in anticipation.

The SUV rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of its engine fading beneath the city's lively atmosphere. Luca glanced out the window.

He had expected the building to be tucked away somewhere quiet, maybe in the outskirts where things were less chaotic. But no. This sub-quarters sat right in the heart of Milan, surrounded by the rhythm of a city that thrived on speed and competition.

It wasn't as grand as the sub-quarters in Berlin, nor did it have the sheer presence of the FIA's main Italian base in Rome, but it still held authority.

The building was a combination of modern and classical architecture, and the front boasted towering white columns that lined the entrance like a courthouse. Between them, large glass panels reflected the movement of the streets, giving the place a polished and an intimidating feel.

The FiA's crest was at the top of the building, a few flags and Italy's, and the banners of the 12th round, temporarily hung proudly along the facade.

What caught Luca's attention most, however, were the steps leading up to the entrance. They were wide, expansive, and slightly worn from years of heavy foot traffic. They reminded him of the steps leading into a high court, almost as if those who entered were on trial. And in some ways, maybe they were.

He was now.

Luca shifted his gaze to Mr. Ammerman and Mr. Ruben as they gathered everyone. They seemed just as unimpressed by the location as he was.

He adjusted his nose mask, feeling a sharp sense of awareness and insecurity settle over him.

This was Italy.

And let's be honest—of all places, this wasn't the country that would be thrilled to see Luca Rennick, was it?

His sharp eyes above the mask scanned the road behind them where a parade of people were marching down the street. They were beating drums and dressed in uniforms of brown and red. A very weird color combination.

Those who were beating drums were organized and uniformed while others waved flags and chanted, their voices carrying over the traffic. Some had their faces painted, others wore custom-made shirts with bold statements about their favorite drivers.

"Madness," Luca heard one of the crew members mutter beside him.

The most wildest Italian community, the Tifosi. Luca really didn't want to think about them; he'd disliked them from the beginning even when he was little.

Mr. Ammermann merely adjusted his watch and gestured toward the entrance. "Ignore it. Let's move."

Luca refocused on the building ahead as they began climbing the steps. The wide, imposing staircase stretched before them, each step bringing them closer to the next phase of their carefully crafted plan. Mr. Ruben threw an arm around Luca's shoulder.

The second phase would most likely be termed as the most useless phase. Because in truth, it'd look useful, but it'd be not.

According to Trampos' strategy, Luca would formally apply and take his tests here at the sub-quarters. Everything would appear routine like just another driver going through the mandatory medical clearance.

But the moment he completed the initial rounds, they would leave as expected, only to diverge from the anticipated course. They would... head to an entirely different facility.

Not another FIA sub-quarter, but a private, FIA-approved hospital in Milan.

You see, Mr. Fisher had been in the motorsport industry long enough to recognize that Luca's previous test delays were not random.

Something—or someone—was working against them. And if Luca were to retake the tests under the same circumstances, the outcome would likely be no different. That was why Mr. Fisher had devised this strategy, a strategy to outmaneuver whatever hidden force was interfering with Luca's results.

The hospital they had in mind, Clinica San Cataldo, was located in the Porta Vittoria district of Milan. Unlike typical FIA medical centers, this was a private institution, yet it held FIA approval. This was an unusual and rare status.

The reason for this dated back seventeen years, to an era when the previous generation of Formula racing was in full swing. During an Italian Grand Prix that was supposed to be the decisive battle between Squadra Corse and Nevada HanSama, tensions between fans reached a boiling point.

Surprisingly, the worst of the violence didn't even unfold in Monza, where the race took place, but right here in Milan.

Chaos erupted in the streets, leading to injuries on a scale the FIA had never anticipated. The sheer number of casualties overwhelmed the Federation's medical resources, and since the violence was ultimately linked to their sport, they were forced to take responsibility for the victims' treatment and expenses.

Clinica San Cataldo had been, and still remained, one of the finest hospitals in the region. With its extensive medical wards, cutting-edge facilities, and top-tier equipment, it was the only institution capable of handling the crisis at the time.

In the aftermath, the FIA sought to formalize its relationship with the hospital for easier access, integrating it into its network of approved medical centers.

Though the violence had long since faded into history, Clinica San Cataldo retained its FIA-approved status. And today, that designation would serve Luca well.

Of all the FIA sub-quarters in Italy, Clinica San Cataldo was the last place anyone would expect Luca to be. And with him having simultaneously taken tests at the FIA sub-quarters they had just visited, no one would question.

Everyone would assume that the sub-quarters was his chosen facility, until Trampos emerged with Luca's official test results from another "FIA-approved facility."

Clinica San Cataldo was known for its speed, accuracy, and efficiency. If its status as a private institution was truly independent, then Trampos and Luca might have just outmaneuvered the FIA itself. Your journey continues with My Virtual Library Empire

After a long drive through Milan's bustling streets, they finally arrived. The hospital stood before them, a pristine structure of white and glass, its architecture both modern and complex at the same time.

Surrounded by older buildings with more traditional designs, it was clear that Clinica San Cataldo had undergone significant reconstruction to fit the evolving world around it.

Luca smiled as they approached the entrance. Now, this was the facility where he would take his real tests.